


Take Them Down (Take Him Back)

by Lovely_Silhouette



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Cunnilingus, Devil Trigger (Devil May Cry), Devil Trigger Sex (Devil May Cry), Dubious Consent, Face-Sitting, Feral Behavior, Intersex, M/M, Mentioned Oviposition, Mentioned Pregnancy (no actual pregnancy), Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Torture, Twincest, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21290225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovely_Silhouette/pseuds/Lovely_Silhouette
Summary: What happens when a group of demons expect a result, and someone’s promises are not delivered upon? Well, then a group of demons are just going to have to get clever.An Heir of Sparda once declared his intentions to take the Underworld throne for himself. If one heir fails to do so, then the spare will just have to do - whether he wants it or not.(And along the way, some weird demon boning will be had.)Said weird demon boning only applies to a section of the whole story, so if you just want some plot with some Spardacest, demon instincts, and Vergil rescuing his brother, I’ve got you covered. There should also be a little ending section that is free of any weird demon boning and back to some plot.
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 224
Collections: Spardacest Server Fics and Art





	Take Them Down (Take Him Back)

**Author's Note:**

> Looks like this is my first actual attempt at writing smut, since my other works are stalling. XD Hope you all enjoy!

The job was a simple one, comparatively speaking - find the old cavern located about 20 miles outside the city limits, take out the scouts, storm the tunnels and clear out the demons taking residence. Lady would have been able to take out the nest on her own if there wasn’t the consideration of the stone ceiling, weakened by a barrage of her explosive ordinances, collapsing overhead. As it stands, she will just have to deal with Trish and himself accompanying her.

Lady refusing to pay him aside, Vergil has his own reasons for coming along on this little expedition.

(On his desk in Devil May Cry, a bronze bookmark sits awaiting use, carefully engraved with ivy and roses and polished with care. A cabochan charm hangs from one end, simple and quaint, displaying the words _”No bird flies too high if he soars with his own wings”_. There are several interpretations to such a quote - one saying there are no heights one cannot achieve through his own efforts, another cautioning that rising in isolation blinds him to all below him. Knowing Dante, both meanings are intended.

His brother claims he made it on a whim, bored and waiting for the phone to ring. He fools no one, not even himself.)

The entrance is guarded only a few sentries, Hell Caina’s and what looks to be a Baphomet hiding in the shadows of the tunnel, concentrating on a collage of faintly glowing seals that disguise their presence. A small force, and interestingly organized. These demons are more intelligent than your average Underworld vanguard, it seems. Perhaps this won’t be a wasted venture after all.

Beside him, Trish cocks her guns, and Lady readies what looks like a heavy assault rifle, switching off the safety. With his own overwhelming presence, there’s no way their prey hasn’t noticed that someone is nearby. A quick assault will prevent an initial alert from being sounded. The prey will not be allowed to flee.

There’s no point in discussing what needs to be done. As the fastest of their little alliance, Vergil takes point, darting out from behind their cover and closing the distance with all the speed his limbs are capable of. The Yamato sings in his hand, vibrating with his intent, thirsting for the blood of those who would dare keep him from his goal.

It does not connect, however, because the Caina he had been aiming for takes one look at him and falls to its knees, scythe offered blade-down on the ground before it in supplication.

Its jaw remains limp, no lips with which to form vowels and no tongue to form consonants, yet its voice is a high, sibilant rasp like sheer cloth being scratched. Beside it, the other Hell Caina also drops to its knees, and the Baphomet dips its head deeply even as it continues its arcane gestures. _“Son of Sparda.”_

Vergil keeps the edge of his sword poised, staring down at the Caina’s bowed, cloth-laden head. The stares of his companions are heavy on his back. This isn’t part of the plan they discussed on the way here, not by a longshot, yet Vergil considers himself a flexible man. This will change nothing but their angle of attack. “Curious,” he says. This close, the wind can’t disguise the stink of dried flesh and rotting blood. “You know who I am, yet you bend your knee to me. I am not your master.”

The guards are careful to keep their eyes low even as Trish and Lady make their way out from the brush. The other Caina releases a hissing breath at the human’s presence, but falls silent again when Vergil allows his power to flare in warning. Definitely smarter than the average rabble to only require a single warning.

It shakes its head in some sort of denial. _“Son of Sparda,”_ it rasps again, somehow placing emphasis on it despite its voice remaining monotonously quiet. The armies of the Underworld were bred to obey, not speak. _“Heir.”_

“Heir?”

“To your father’s legacy, Lord Vergil.”

The voice, melodic and sudden, comes from within his mind as natural as a thought, yet it does not belong to him. It brings with it unpleasant whispers of phantom memories that no longer exist - like the sensation of knowing one should have a hole in one’s chest, yet looking down and seeing whole, unmarred flesh. Already on alert, it takes an aggravating amount of effort not to take this newcomer’s head as it emerges from the shadows of the tunnel. Trish’s aura flares for a brief moment, a flash of lightning in distant thunderclouds, telling him that he isn’t the only one who heard the voice.

A new demon approaches, midnight blue-fleshed and lanky, floating off of clawed, digitigrade legs. 6 tiny, wide-set eyes watch him with unblinking avarice from a face not unlike a flattened deer skull, large horns a horizontal spiral. The demon’s long, clawed fingers lace together and its head bows low over them, landing on the ground in a gesture of respect from a magic-user. It’s smaller than most demons Vergil has ever seen, shorter than even Nero’s beloved, with fleshy strands like ligaments connecting the areas around the joints to each other. The seals around the entrance prevent him from sensing its power, yet it is rare that he finds a resident of the Underworld with a unique appearance that does not have some measure of power.

“It is an honor to finally meet you, elder Heir of Sparda,” the demon says into his mind again, fingers remaining laced, its jaw stiff and unmoving. Almost vestigial. “I am Apate, of the Disgraced Legion.”

Trish lets out a faint scoff of astonishment. “The Disgraced Legion? You’re still alive? I thought Mundus had you all hunted down millennia ago.”

Apate tilts its head, radiating a sort of dark, bitter amusement that is felt more than seen. Wisps of black smoke steadily trail off its skin. “The rumors of our deaths are greatly exaggerated, as you can see. Our former master, Lord Sparda, prided himself on having more cunning retainers than other lords under his service. The legion’s numbers are far fewer than it once boasted, yet we still remain and endure.”

These demons once served his father? Vergil supposes it makes some sense - before his rebellion, Sparda was a knight of the Underworld, one of power, esteem and renown. He would have commanded entire legions in the Prince of Darkness’ name, with commanders, captains and lieutenants hand-selected to serve as his arms, eyes and ears. Legions that would have been hunted to extinction for the crime of having served under such an infamous traitor once Sparda began his rebellion.

Regardless of the truth of the claim, Vergil is willing to play along for now. Especially if it has even the smallest chance of yielding clues…

They wouldn’t address him as the _elder_ heir of Sparda if they didn’t already know there was a _younger_.

He sheathes the Yamato for the moment, which the Caina’s and Baphomet take as signs to return to their posts. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? After so long in hiding, surely you wouldn’t reemerge without cause.”

“We heard tell of our Lord Sparda having produced two heirs before his demise,” Apate answers, unknowingly answering a question that has plagued Vergil since the day they watched him walk out the doors of their home, never to return. He tells himself that he can stop subconsciously hoping that one day, his father will walk back through those doors, just as powerful and ageless and wise as he ever was, and pretends his heart doesn’t throb at the prospect. “We had hoped to… introduce ourselves, so to speak; especially after news of you, Lord Vergil, making an attempt on the vacant throne of the Underworld reached us.”

“Did you now?” Vergil sniffs, disdainful. His thumb caresses the Yamato’s tsuba with ponderous intent. “I’m afraid you’re a bit late if you wished to be of service to that endeavor. I have resolved myself to remaining in the human world now.”

Apate is quick to bow its head again, submissive and appeasing of any ire being directed at it. “Of course,” it acknowledges, its voice taking on a softer note in his mind. “We heard of your battle with your brother. Legends in the human world tell of Lord Sparda once ruling it; if the Underworld throne is no longer an option, then the human world is no less a worthy prize. You spend some time training your own heir, yes? Perhaps to be one of your own knights...?”

As if Nero would ever let him get away with such a thing, let alone Dante. Vergil resists the urge to laugh in this creature’s face. His companion’s scents tinge with anger and resentment, telling him what they think of its suggestion more clearly than if they planted bullet holes in his back until finally he stopped regenerating.

Still, it is disquieting how close an eye this Disgraced Legion has kept on him and his family, without any of them knowing. Doubtless they know about his son’s own little family in Fortuna. Vergil is tempted to restart the hunt now because of it, regardless of anything he could possibly gain from keeping this charade up. The danger they pose is already coming close to outweighing their potential usefulness.

When Vergil fails to respond beyond a noncommittal hum, Apate shifts subtly in the uncomfortable silence. Weakness.

“Regardless of your goals, Lord Vergil, we will not be remaining in the human world for much longer,” it tells him, guessing its own fate without knowing it, amusingly. Its mental voice picks up as it begins to float once again. “Before we leave, we have something that might be of interest to you. Follow me, if it pleases you.”

Stepping over the threshold of the seals brings with it a surge of awareness, like a metaphorical blanket finally being removed from his senses. The icy chill of the Baphomet, the miniscule itch of the Hell Caina, the ooze of shadow and gloam across his skin from Apate; and overlaying it all, a vast ocean of crimson lightning and flames that Vergil has known as intimately as his own soul since the womb. An energy signature Vergil has spent the last 4 days searching every knook, crany, pizza joint and bar from Devil May Cry to Fortuna for, ever since Dante missed his weekly, near-mandatory Treat-Myself-To-Pizza-And-Sundaes-For-No-Reason day last week.

Truth be told, it had been a rather obvious indication of something afoot - Dante never fails to try and drag Vergil into his unnecessary, self-indulgent ventures. He’ll even finish a job in record time if it means taking his brother to his favorite restaurant. After 5 months of these regular excursions, Vergil has even managed to become accustomed to them. The servers know his order by now.

“Dante is here,” Vergil says, a cold accusation and an inquiry in one. His thumb rests firmly against the Yamato’s tsuba now, ready to draw his blade if his questions aren’t answered promptly.

“Indeed,” Apate agrees outright, watching him carefully. The gloam of its power shifts like mist on the edge of his senses. “Lord Dante came to stay with us… a few days ago? I apologize. I am unfamiliar with how exactly one tells time here in the human world.”

The acid heat in Lady’s tone could etch metal. Instantly, their guide’s demeanor becomes apathetic and uncooperative. “What the fuck do you mean by-”

“Enough,” Vergil cuts her off before Apate’s silent disdain can become any more apparent. Much as he agrees with her sentiments at the moment - and isn’t that a surprise; Dante would be proud - demons don’t tend to have the most favorable view of humans. This particular group of demons is clever enough to have evaded execution for millennia, and cunning enough to successfully trap his brother in the long-term. If they think Vergil weak because he can’t “control” the lone human accompanying him, they may attempt to block their way. They will try to flee, possibly _with_ Dante, when a confrontation is inevitably forced thereafter. He will deal with her attitude and scorn later if it means securing his brother’s location now. Playing with their arrogance and preconceptions will be key.

Vergil ignores the glare aimed at his back to throw a glance back at Trish. She’s ill-content if the way her hands clench around her guns says anything. Even so, she must understand the politics he plays now. With a sigh, Trish stands by Lady’s side, a warning and a comfort, where she will remain until such a time in which they can spring their trap without fear of fleeing prey.

His ploy must work, because Apate’s mental voice radiates with approval. Their guide floats down the dark, damp tunnels, the bittersweet odor of decay and coagulating blood that often accompanies the presence of a demon nest flooding his nose unpleasantly. “We know you enjoyed a stay in your father’s homeland some decades ago-”

“I wouldn’t have called it a joyful experience,” he cuts in, a rush of bitter anger causing his teeth to grit. He grips the Yamato’s sheath, feeling the pulse of her aura and letting it wash over him.

“It _is_ unfortunate that Mundus of all beings found you first,” it concedes, sounding just a touch disappointed and sour, “but even so. Your time in his court gave you firsthand experience in what it means to be of our kind. It has helped mold you into a proper heir for your father’s legacy. Your brother, on the other hand, is… stubborn.”

“As is typical of Dante,” Vergil says, having expected nothing less. “He has inherited our father’s rebelliousness.”

Along the way, he makes note of every demon they pass - their species, their location, their weaponry. Nearly every demon he sees appears haggard, weary and wary in a way that speaks of an eternity without true rest or enough food. Even Apate, clearly something of a leader to this band and the healthiest because of it, looks worse for wear now that Vergil has something to compare it to. They all seem to maintain an air of… anticipation. Waiting, with an almost manic energy vibrating under their skin. They look at him as if they want to sink their claws into him and never let go.

“We’ve noticed,” Apate laughs lightly, emboldened by his callousness. “And your father’s strength. Both of you have surpassed him, I’d dare to say. But worry not. We're working with him to ensure that the stain he casts onto Lord Sparda's legacy will be purged.”

Proud. Just a hair short of bragging. Like a dutiful retainer expecting to be praised for its good judgement. Vergil will enjoy slaughtering these wretches for their presumptions. “Explain.”

With every step they take, the pulse of crimson lightning and blazing inferno grows larger, clearer, closer. Vergil contains a smile. Their guide leads them right to his brother, and their doom.

“See for yourself.”

Apate leads them into a circular basin large enough to house a city plaza, carved out by claw and spell. They exit out onto a balcony space overlooking a huge altar decorated with complicated swirling lines and carefully-placed keystones, each manned by a series of Lusachia that drone a continuous chant. Vile yellow energy flowing through the rents, lacing with familiar red, pouring into a larger, even more intricate seal-lattice that spans the entire cavern from floor to ceiling. And in the center of it all…

Dante, floating in a cage of more yellow energy, his transformed body twisting in a futile struggle to break free. His aura flows from him, leeched from where the energy forms inelegant restraints around his wrists and ankles. A deep snarl has broken out across his lips, fangs on display. His wings spread wide and twitch with either rage or pain.

That explains the size and intricacy of the seal, Vergil muses idly, fury building in his breast like the calm before the storm. A demon as powerful as his brother would be impossible to contain for all but the most powerful of spells.

Yes. Vergil will relish this.

Behind him, Trish’s aura grates like static against his skin, and the strap of Lady’s gun creeks as her hand clenches around it.

“What am I seeing, Apate?” Vergil asks, to which the demon gives a physical, entirely too delighted noise.

“His humanity is what's stunting his potential,” it explains, swaying in the air with some intoxicating emotion, “so we are taking steps to neutralize it. We don’t have the power necessary to do what was done for you, Lord Vergil, but we’re able to make due with this lovely seal we found in the depths of the Underworld’s most secret libraries. By forcing him to stay in his true form and expend his energy, he feeds the seal, yet the low-level torment it causes is so constant that he cannot replenish his energy any other way than by consuming something human. He refuses to consume the human flesh and blood we try to feed him, so the only thing left for his true nature to devour is his own humanity.” Apate laughs, vile and triumphant, chest spasming with physical, breathless noises. “An exhaustible resource.”

The chanting reaches a zenith, and the seal gives a dizzying throb of power that distorts the air inside the cavern. Toxic yellow brightens and surges, leeching his brother’s aura at an even faster rate. Crimson red bleeds into the yellow, only to be subsumed and converted into more of the substance that restrains him.

Dante _screams_.

Already on the hair’s breadth from vibrating like a plucked string at the careless comment - as if almost a decade of suffering was but a _footnote_, a _curiosity_ \- Vergil’s vision washes over red.

“Just a little more time,” it utters as if to itself, chest still making that repugnant wheezing, beady eyes locked on Vergil’s brother with the same avarice with which it gazed upon him. Perhaps it has forgotten them for the moment, too wrapped up in its own desperate thoughts to care who hears it. Vergil is beyond caring at this point. “Just a little more and he will be ready. One heir takes the human world, the other takes the Underworld, and finally, _finally_ we can-”

Apate never gets the chance to finish its thoughts. Its head rolls at Vergil’s feet, inky blood like liquid shadows pouring from its neck. Blessed silence follows, even the Lusachia stunned as they notice their leader falling to the heir of their precious former master. Its body turns to soot and ash, and the demons shriek their denial, their outrage, their pure, unadulterated _fear_.

Good. If they wanted to live, they shouldn’t have touched what didn’t belong to them.

“Find the keystone thread line,” Vergil tells Trish, already proceeding further in to take care of the casters before they can steal away with his brother. On the other side of the balcony, Lady presses a button, and somewhere behind them, the cavern rumbles as if a section had just collapsed. “If we can destroy it, the entire seal will unravel.”

She shoots the head off an incoming Frost. “On it.”

Vergil allows the fury that threatens to choke him fuel the raging wildfire of his power, scales and claws and wings superimposing over his softer flesh. It was never enough for them that Dante and Vergil were powerful, of a once esteemed bloodline, held territory of their own and could even assume a demonic form. All demons ever saw was the humanity in them.

(_”I’m not human!”_ Vergil had screamed as a child, over and over and over and _over_ again, until his throat bled and his lungs burned. He repeated it, his anthem and his lullaby, so many times that even he started to believe it. It had taken having his heart sealed away, dying and splitting himself in two for him to realize just how wrong he was.)

And maybe it is because of the human in him - long suppressed yet finally getting a chance to be free, to grow, to _win_ \- but Vergil finds he’s well and truly _sick_ of being thought lesser just because his mother _dared_ to be human.

It takes a little more than 20 minutes to scout the entire system of tunnels, most of them dug out rather than naturally formed. They dispatch the vermin as they find them. Air vents have been dug into the ceiling in strategic places, providing extra routes of escape for the desperate, but even a Caina would have trouble squeezing through without magical aid. When the tunnels have been emptied of prey, he and Lady rejoin Trish and aid in the search.

They find it after well over an hour of searching the seal’s various networks and support lattices. Simply striking out lines randomly and hoping for the best is beyond dangerous, especially when one never knows what part of the seal’s function they are actually destroying. Damaging a single network could be the difference on weakening the chains holding Dante in place and getting rid of the control mechanism that is preventing the seal from simply draining Dante of his energy and then his life force without stopping. All the while, their search is spurred on by every time the seal, still functional despite the lack of spell-weaving aiding it, activates and throbs to life, causing Dante to scream like he’s being flayed alive. Like he’s dying.

They find it on the ceiling right above the cage. Since they can’t be sure of what state they’ll find his brother in, Trish and Lady retreat to the entrance of the chamber. Vergil remains where he is near the cage, keeping his demon form active for the moment.

The seal was forcing his brother to devour part of his own soul in order to maintain enough demonic power to stay alive. Since the job is incomplete, then, in theory, Dante’s soul should be able to recover in time once he’s free. It’s just a matter of getting him out of here and back to familiar territory.

When he’s sure that the other two are far enough away to not be considered an immediate target, Vergil summons series of spectral swords and sends them plunging into the center of the keystone thread line, distorting it and disrupting the flow of power. Without the constant, consistent flow of power between the lines, the seal has no choice but to collapse.

The cage fades and Dante drops. He hits the ground hard, panting in the dirt, unmoving except for the occasional pained twitch, wings splayed limply around him.

Vergil chances a step forward. “Dante…?”

In an instant, Dante springs to his feet in a crouch and launches himself at Vergil. He doesn’t bother summoning his sword. That, more than anything, tells Vergil what kind of state Dante is in.

Dante collides with him shoulder-first, the weight of his body slamming full force into Vergil and throwing them back. Vergil allows them to tumble across the ground, grappling his brother’s body, grunting as sharp claws dig into the hide of his chest and spine-like toes scratch at his legs. After a brief struggle, Dante rolls them so that he’s planted himself firmly on Vergil’s chest, breath whooshing out from the force of the weight slamming down on his ribcage. Fingers grip his throat with a crushing grip. Blood trickles from the holes his brother’s claws punch through his armored hide. The hand not holding Vergil down raises up, fingers rearing to strike. His wings spread high and wide, a threatening display matched only by the guttural roar that leaps from his snarling mouth. When he looks at Vergil, his wide eyes hold no recognition, only beastial pain, and desperate, unthinking need to end the source of it.

His first instinct is to throw Dante off him, to respond with violence for violence. It would have even been expected; conflict being so much a part of their nature no matter their reconciliation. When he returns to himself, his soft-hearted fool of a brother would even be glad that Vergil defended himself.

That’s exactly why Vergil does the opposite.

Dante freezes as Vergil’s chest vibrates with a sound not unlike a croon, subvocal sound waves mixing with what high-pitched noise he can get through his twin’s chokehold. He allows his hands to rest on Dante’s waist, cradling hard scales as if it were delicate silk. Vergil watches his brother’s face, confusion and tension twisting his features at the soothing noise, his demonic instincts picking up on the lack of hostility and finding it juxtaposed with the suffering he has endured. No doubt, when he launched his assault, Dante thought he was getting the jump on one of his captors.

The grip around his neck loosens bit by bit as Vergil continues his efforts, allowing him to get out more and more of his crooning until he can feel it throughout his entire body. He carefully weaves his power into Dante’s aura, sending with it signals of strength, of stability, of alliance - says without words _“I am here, I will not hurt you, you are **safe**”_. Vergil moves one of his hands up his torso. His palm tingles from the glowing rent in his brother’s chest before settling over his heart.

Ever so slowly, Dante responds, his body relaxing by inches. His wings lower and retract and his hand falls away from Vergil’s neck. Feeling brave, Vergil allows himself the chance to sit up. The hand not over his brother’s heart drifts up his arm, keeping his palm in full-contact, until it can wrap around Dante’s wrist and guide the arm back down to his side. When that doesn’t garner a negative reaction, Vergil allows his wings to stretch forward, hooking the spiked joints under his brother’s armpits to draw him more firmly against his body.

Instinct guiding him, Vergil starts nuzzling at Dante’s face, not liking the hazy film over his still-uncomprehending, increasingly weary eyes. Gentle, he butts his horned brow against Dante’s temple, nose and lips grazing his cheek and jaw. He smells like sweat and agony and strange demons, and his breath has faint traces of blood, possibly from biting his own lips and tongue.

Dante snaps his fangs at him in warning, still wary despite his falling guard. In response, Vergil gives him the same displeased, reprimanding growl he gives Nero when the boy spars with him in his more temperamental, stubborn moods. He’s trying to be helpful. The least the brat can do is not make this more difficult than it has to be.

It takes some coaxing, but Vergil eventually rolls Dante onto his back, ignoring the claws that scratch lightly at his back. Only when he has his twin firmly settled on the ground does he nudge his chin up, exposing his long, scaled throat, and carefully sink his fangs into the revealed flesh. Blood floods over his tongue, tasting of power and family - rich and sweet.

The noise Dante chokes out is reedy with distress and pain, but then it transforms into a long wheeze of releasing tension. His body goes completely limp, instinctively submitting in response to the dominance of another, stronger demon. Vergil unclenches his jaw with just as much care and breathes out a sigh. The protective fury inside him finally cools now that his brother is safe, is allowing himself to be cared for. Vergil wraps his arms tightly around Dante’s shoulders and waist, cradling his shaking body close and making sure every inch of them is touching.

_You did it,_ he tells his trembling, all too human heart in some futile attempt to sooth it, something too steady to be panic fading, and something not quite horrible enough to be grief taking its place. _You made it in time._

“Well? How is he?” Lady demands from up on the balcony, impatient.

Perhaps it’s due to a combination of constant stress and exertion, but when he looks, Dante’s face is slackened in sleep despite his body retaining the accoutrements of his devil trigger. It’s strange, concerning, that he hasn’t reverted back to his human flesh by now. It’s possible that he won’t drop it until his instincts recognize himself as being in safer territory.

“Alive, if unconscious,” Vergil calls back, voice echoing with demonic undertones. He puts his arms under his brother’s shoulders and knees, lifting them both up.

“Let’s haul his ass back, then. You might want to make a portal - I blew up the only entrance.”

“Lovely.” That would require drawing the Yamato, yet every instinct in his body rebels against his only logical options. Letting one of the ladies use the Yamato is out of the question, as is placing his brother on the cold, hard ground, and if Trish tries to take Dante from him, Vergil might just kill her…

He settles for assuming his stronger form, using the tail to support his legs while his other hand wields his sword.

She smiles and shrugs carelessly, impudent and unphased. “Fuckers should have paid better attention. Their loss.”

Trish rolls her eyes skywards.

* * *

Later, after the women have been chased off with unnecessary assurances of Vergil’s dedication to watching over his brother’s recovery, several threats if he doesn’t keep them updated on Dante’s status, and a promise to keep potential visitors away, Vergil allows himself to finally relax against Dante’s headboard, safe in the knowledge that the territory is secure for the moment.

Kittenish breaths puff against his thigh. Dante almost purrs in his sleep as Vergil lightly scratches clawed fingers over his horns, neck and shoulders. His brother may have to look into getting a new mattress and sheet set soon if his shoulder spikes pressing into his little nest is anything to go by. At least his scent is starting to clear up - no longer only pain and fear and strange demons, but of himself, and Vergil. An intensely pleasing combination.

They smell almost like one.

Vergil dozes, keeping his lower transformation up for the moment just in case Dante wakes up still in his confused, feral state. His awareness comes back in an instant, however, when he feels his brother stir.

Half-lidded golden eyes flicker open to stare up at him, relaxed and waiting. There’s still no recognition in them yet, nothing beyond the recognition of one who has accepted another’s claim, but there’s more life, more soul, in them than there was hours previously. Vergil tells himself not to worry just yet. Especially as he watches Dante turn his head into the pillows, taking in entire lungfuls of the familiar scent of _home_, glancing around with something just shy of comprehension before it settles on uncaring relief.

Of course, his concern transforms into wry levity as Dante takes another look at him and flops onto his back with a carelessly elegant sprawl, wings curled around his body sensually and a deep, bass-heavy sound slithering out of his exposed throat.

“You’re shameless,” Vergil tells him, shaking his head, helplessly fond. “I know what you’re doing.”

The red that brushes and melds with his own aura is still weaker than normal, probably less than half of its usual strength despite getting several hours of rest in. It’s normal demon behavior to ingratiate yourself to those stronger than you when at a power disadvantage. So much so that it forms the bulk and backbone of demon politics and social navigation.

More importantly, despite not being fully recovered, Dante’s mind has clearly emerged enough to color the course of his instincts with his distinct, oh-so-charmingly flamboyant flare. He can work with that.

Vergil also can’t say he’s not… interested in what’s being offered.

Tension of one sort or another has always existed as some facet of their relationship - be it in the differences of their ideologies, or the blatant, almost obscene pleasure that zings along his nerves when they match their skills against one another. The sharp turn it has taken in recent days, slow instead of frantic, careful instead of desolate, however, has been been a source of puzzling intrigue. It’s not hard to know what Dante wants. Vergil just wishes he could wrap his mind more clearly around the methods his brother uses, when slow and careful and gentle have rarely been a part of Dante’s skill set in the past. That Vergil is thinking of a man 20-something years in the past is still something he’s getting used to.

If Dante wants to present himself to him in his addled state, then Vergil isn’t going to say no. His twin is beautiful, rugged and masculine and vibrantly alive, and his demon form is just as pleasing to the eye. Vergil can’t deny wanting a taste, and his hunger grows by the second.

(He’s never fully understood why anyone would call him narcissistic for being attracted to his brother. They share the same blood and features, but it is the mind and soul that make the man. The only qualities he and Dante share are their stubbornness, their bloodlust, and their ability to love with every shred of their being.)

It wouldn’t do to take too many liberties while Dante can’t reliably tell Vergil what he really wants, but that’s alright. There are more ways to accept this offering than the fastest and most base option.

“Come here,” Vergil tells him, refusing to move from his place at the headboard just yet. Dante pouts at him, disappointed that he won’t fall for his lazy attempts at charming, but seems keen not to disobey him all the same. He pulls himself up, and Vergil draws him in with a hand on the back of his neck. He ignores Dante’s purring rumble, how he sticks his chest out and curves his spine for Vergil’s viewing pleasure, and instead focuses on the spot where he slid his teeth in just hours before. Pressing his nose right to the side of the offered throat, he breathes deeply.

Gun oil and lightning. A faint whiff of coppery, bloody tang. The subtle, sweetly arousing aroma of the temporary pheromones generated by Dante’s skin absorbing his saliva.

The sound Vergil makes is dark and rough with his pleasure. Under his palm, Dante shudders.

Despite the lack of charmingly incessant commentary, Dante is not listless beneath Vergil’s attentions. He arches up into Vergil’s touch, sighing and moaning and purring whenever he enjoys any kind of treatment. He runs his hands along the lines and curves of Vergil’s body, mouthing and nipping at his shoulders, fingertip and jaw with a kind of greedy appreciation that he would like to think isn’t simply half-feral attraction, a symptom of his brother’s hedonism. Vergil kisses him, chasing the taste of him, running his tongue over Dante’s teeth even as they nick him before inviting his brother inside in turn. They pull away, lips stained crimson red, and Vergil feels like laughing.

He plays with Dante’s body, turning him around onto his hands and knees to kiss him from behind. His tongue in this form is extended and oddly textured, and every swipe of it against Dante’s furrowed hole drives his brother into an exquisite fit. He shakes and shudders, whining and groaning as he falls to his elbows. His head bows low to grind his forehead into the mattress, pushing his ass back in a demand for more. He obliges, not stopping even when his brother tries to goad him into moving on, until he pulls an orgasm gasping and trembling from his body.

When Dante flops bonelessly over onto his back, Vergil expects to see an erection standing proud and stiff from the chiseled v of his hips, leaking pungent, slick fluid. Instead, he finds a damp slit that he’s never noticed on his brother’s body before. Now that he’s come up for air, Vergil also notices he can’t smell the infernal spice that is typical of an eggless orgasm.

The fluid is smooth and sticky when he runs his fingers gently over the slit, causing Dante to jolt and shudder anew as his oversensitive body is stimulated further. When he applies a little more pressure, his fingers sink in to touch velvety, fleshy walls, gripping them firmly and wreathing them in molten heat.

Another mystery solved. Since the demons of his father’s particular kin tend to be intersex, Vergil had assumed that his human blood meant his biology could only support a phallus to match his human form’s cock. He assumed his twin would be like him in this regard. Instead, it appears that whatever factors that would have produced a vaginal opening in him have instead gone to Dante.

Even more reason not to take greater liberties while in this form. Their birth forms produce seed like any other human, but their kind of demon reproduces by laying eggs in the body of a receiving partner. There are several methods to stop this process from resulting in a pregnancy - none of which either Dante or himself have access to at the moment.

Vergil brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, knowing that Dante hasn’t once looked away from him. He doesn’t bother stifling the groan that escapes him as he takes his brother’s flavor, deeming the sample delicious. Dante stares at him with open need, not satisfied with one single wringing of his body, and that too is heady enough to make Vergil’s head spin.

He removes his fingers with a faint pop when he’s sure they’re clean, and Dante reaches up to pull him down for more.

Sensually, luxuriously, they take each apart. Dante drags his hands and mouth along his phallus, getting his own thorough tasting in, taking as much of it into his mouth as Vergil will allow him. He growls a protest when he’s tugged off just as Vergil reaches orgasm, but then Vergil guides him to sit on his neck and upper chest, nipping at his thighs and burying his face in his brother’s slit. He gives Dante another tongue lashing that leaves him jerking and on the verge of screaming, fingers digging into his ass cheeks as his brother braces himself on the headboard. Vergil allows himself to trail his claws along the glowing rent in Dante’s chest, scratching sharp claws against tough flesh just hard enough to draw a few beads of blood and leaving his brother keening and arching into the gentle pain.

When he lays over his kneeling brother’s back, it is for multiple reasons; to better cover him with Vergil’s scent, to bracket him with his wings, for greater access to his throat, which Dante offers so eagerly for Vergil’s teeth and lips, and for a better position with which to run his claws over Dante’s body. He trails them over his scalp and down his spine, across his belly, eliciting shivers and quiet, breathy moans. He trails one hand up to encircle his neck, and another sinking down to palm his opening, soaked in his own slick.

Shaking with arousal, Dante whimpers and grinds his body back hard against Vergil’s, ass cradling his erection, flaring his wings, low and inviting, as much as he can with Vergil’s in the way. His voice shakes with begging calls. He screams with his entire body, “yes, please, take me, fill me, I’m ready, I’m _**ready**_.”

The desire that overtakes him is _maddening_.

It would be so easy to take Dante like this, to crush him up against the headboard, angle his hip just so and slide right into the wet heat that would burn him from the inside out. His body cries out for it, yet Vergil refuses to let it rule him.

“Later,” he promises Dante, turning him around and scooting down to lay him on the bed. Dante follows without needing to be told twice, over-eager and latching onto Vergil with his entire body the moment he gets close enough to hook his wing-spines under Vergil’s arms. His hips grind up, tilting this way and that in some futile attempt to line his slit up with the cock he so clearly desires. When he can’t manage to get it just right, Dante digs his head back into the pillows with a snarling sob of frustration.

Vergil grinds himself along his brother’s opening, a tease and a compromise as much as it is a pursuit of his own pleasure. “Later,” he says again, giving burning, open-mouthed kisses and receiving aggravated nips and pleading cries in return. “When you can tell me with your own words how much you want this. I’ll fill you then and only then, brother. You’ll just have to make due with this in the meantime.”

Wet heat overtakes him as he clutches his twin close, building higher and higher. His heart beats like a wild drum in his chest, and he can hearsmell_**feel**_ Dante’s pulse race alongside him. The rise is so incredible he can’t help but sink his fangs into his brother’s flesh once more. The taste of power, of family, of _home_ pushes him over the edge. It grows into a glorious crescendo, a tidal wave Vergil has no more wish to stop than he does the movement of the stars. Voluminous fluid leaks from the his tip into the space between them, no eggs following without a body to put them in.

Against him, with him, Dante arches and crows his release, trembling and holding on to Vergil like he’s the only thing stopping him from drowning.

Of course, that’s not the end. Like a brat, Dante is determined to get something of Vergil’s inside him. Not wanting to eject his eggs after all this, Vergil returns to his human shape and drags his brother down to suck his cock, hands on his horns. It’s a task Dante takes to with relish, licking and mouthing and sucking like it’s one of his beloved ice cream treats. There’s something visually stimulating about his human flesh being tended to by such a powerful figure, one who bends so sweetly to Vergil’s every direction. It’s not long before he feels that tidal wave building in his stomach again, and he holds Dante’s head down as he spends himself.

Dante swallows the seed without letting a single drop slip the seal of his lips, letting out the most decadent, appreciative moan. Like he’s finally satisfied a craving that has plagued him his whole life. Vergil tugs him up and, after yanking the hand that was working between his thighs, shoves two up his fingers inside Dante, visciously finger-fucking him until he gives Vergil one last, sobbing orgasm.

Dante’s mouth tastes like salt and musk, like him, and it’s even more delicious than Vergil imagined.

They lay down to rest after that, their lust finally satisfied. His twin’s body vibrates gently with his satiated purrs. Dante tries to show his appreciation, licking over Vergil’s face and neck and running careful claws through his hair in some attempt at grooming, but it quickly becomes apparent that his energy levels still haven’t recovered fully.

The grooming slows to a stop as sleep overtakes Dante. He buries his forehead as much as he can into the crook of Vergil’s neck, his wings covering them both. Gentle breaths puff against Vergil’s skin, and he falls asleep to the slow, steady beat of his brother’s heart against his ribs.

* * *

The next morning, Vergil sips his pepsi as he reads the morning news. He still doesn’t know how Nero convinced him to try this drink, or why he likes it so much, but by now its become a part of their weekly food budget as much as Dante’s pizzas and sundaes. If Vergil has anything to say about it, it will remain that way. On threat of pain, if he must.

He’s just looking into the obituaries, looking for any names of his clients that didn’t bother following the instructions he so thoughtfully gave them to follow, when a cough from the balcony attracts his attention.

Having finally returned to his human form in the middle of the night, Dante wanders down the staircase leading to the residential areas. He looks uncertain, shy, and his steps are hesitant. He ruffles his hair, glancing around the room before turning his gaze to Vergil.

“So…” Dante begins. He shifts his weight on his feet. “I’m only gonna say this once, and if you tell anyone I said this I’m going to deny it and laugh at you, but… Thanks. For coming for me. For a while there, I wasn’t sure that anyone was going to make it in time.”

“The so-called Disgraced Legion claimed it was loyal to our Father, yet they apparently weren’t loyal enough to stand by his side during his rebellion,” Vergil says, dripping with venomous disdain. “Then they try to cozy up to his sons for a chance to reclaim the station and power they lost long ago. It was pitiful. I am curious how they managed to capture you in the first place, though. Finally starting to feel your age, brother?”

“Are you?” Dante shoots back, rolling his eyes. “Nah, that one smoke-trailing demon approached me about trying to “escape its demon clan” and “live life in the human world.” It’s rarer than a blue Fury, but I _have_ meet demons like Trish and Sparda, who genuinely wanted to live a life in the human world without causing trouble. I figured, what the hell, might as well look into it, and got jumped in that cave.”

That definitely sounds like something his soft-shelled brother would do. Dante is all heart and no common sense when it comes to someone in need. It’s half the reason he’s still in debt. Vergil nods in acknowledgement. “They admitted to observing us for some time. But enough on that topic. Tell me, how are you faring, Dante? That seal was forcing you to consume parts of your own soul.”

“Still… weird; kinda like I’m only half here. My instincts are closer to the surface than I’m used to. But, for what it’s worth, I’m more or less myself again.”

To Vergil’s confusion, Dante glances away again, still nervous and uneasy for reasons he can’t see.

“And uh…,” he says, rubbing the side of his neck where Vergil bit him to calm him down. “Sorry, I guess. Both for going berserk on you and… for uh… getting…” Dante coughs into his hand. “_Frisky_. If I ended up forcing you into it…”

Guilt it is, then. Nevermind that Dante’s attack had been a panicked response to his prolonged torture. Vergil has done far worse.

But his brother thinks he trespassed and forced Vergil’s hand in order to pacify him, when they’ve already been courting each other’s attention and attraction for months now. He hides his smile behind a sip of his drink.

“How much do you remember?” Vergil asks in lieu of answering, waving his Dante closer to the couch.

Blood rushes to Dante’s face, turning the fair flesh a fascinating shade of pink as he walks closer. “Enough to get an idea of what happened,” he confesses. “And… Thanks again, by the way. For not going all the way. I haven’t let anyone do that to me before.”

Shock and dark, possessive pleasure echoes throughout his every nerve like struck crystal. “Never?”

“Can’t say I’ve never thought about it.” Dante shrugs, his gaze drifting away, uncomfortable and ever so faintly bitter. “I just didn’t want anyone getting any ideas about thinking I had targets to exploit. So. Yeah. Thanks.”

Vergil reaches up to grasp Dante’s chin and turns him back, gently affectionate. His brother looks at him with surprise, and Vergil does not imagine the way he leans into his touch.

“Later,” he repeats his promise, this time when he knows his twin can understand him. Incomprehension furrows his brow for a moment, pale eyes narrowing, before understanding startles his body stiff. “When you can tell me with your own words how much you want it. Then, and only then.”

Familiar hunger blows Dante’s pupil’s wide. His mouth falls open on an exhale, and his body sways unthinkingly into Vergil’s orbit like gravity has him in its hold. He looks at Vergil with tender adoration, like he is a moon bathed in the glow of his chosen sun.

Embarrassment, possibly at his own aching desire, colors Dante’s face a deeper scarlet. His brother licks his lips. Before Vergil can react, Dante ducks down to give a chaste kiss. He ends up missing, leaving a wet mark on the corner of his mouth, but he’s already half-way into the kitchen before Vergil can call him back for a proper attempt.

Vergil shakes his head, helplessly fond, and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Dante mentions in the first game that Mundus can say hello to his son the next time he gets free. Part of me thinks that, somewhere along the line, Dante wanted to have a family of his own one day, but he never took the opportunity for one reason or another.


End file.
